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airless except for eyelashes; pale skin and black
eyes. No stubble, the hair is gone for good; it gets in the way of the neural
contact pads, and it fucks up the suction on the waste disposal units. I walk
to my foodwall where with the push of a button I summon mystic daemons to
conjure with microwaves and high-speed impellers; invoking processed krill,
soya, nutrocarb and spices. The mystic daemons are good to me; I must have
paid the food bill. Out plops a mockburger and a Coke Classic.
I sit down at my table and read the newsslab; I check out the headlines -
more of the same old shit, somehow reassuring. I flick through, read the
advice column, laugh at the editorial cartoon and save it to permanents
memory, check out my horoscope - guardedly lousy - and finally settle down and
watch the comix.
Some people say that adding limited animation to comic strips and cartoons
has killed the artform. I say it's a different thing entirely. Besides, some
pumping action makes a graphic novel REALLY graphic!
Computers have killed a lot of artforms, I think, wiping the last of the
Special Sauce off my lip with a reconstructed napkin. I throw the whol
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